She's A Real Lady
by Das Lieblingsfach
Summary: When Judge Turpin takes an interest in Mrs. Lovett, Sweeney encourages her to pursue him, hoping to reel him back in to the barber's chair and underneath the razor. But what happens when Mr. Todd realizes he's jealous? Sweenett in later chapters.
1. He was lookin' at me, Mister T

A/N: This story is somewhat of a shot in the dark. I'm not entirely sure where it's going to go (though I've got a loose framework of an idea) or what really compelled me to write it in the first place. I think it was because I felt I had a rather original concept to bring to the Sweeney Todd fanfiction front, or at the very least one that isn't explored very often. I sort of feel that most of the Sweenett and Sweeney Todd stories I read fall into the same formulas(there are exceptions, however, and I have commended their delivery. If you haven't heard such a response from me, I probably haven't gotten to your story yet ;) ) and I guess I wanted to take it upon myself to add something unique. I also think that the Sweeney Todd characters are somewhat of a challenge in themselves, just to preserve their characters in fan fictions and anticipate their responses. Often, this judgement is blurred for the sake of taking the story quickly in the anticipated direction. I wanted to accept the challenge of keeping Sweeney unforgiving, Mrs. Lovett sarcastic, and, I suppose, Judge Turpin horny. Anyway, we'll see how it works out. That is, assuming I have enough time/will power to finish the story.

--

Sweeney Todd found he was experiencing a pinnacle within the frustration and impatience that was originally caused by a lack of vindictive killings. More recently, however, it had been catalyzed by the Judge's strange behavior a few days following the failed attempt at murder. The barber was certain that he would never see the man again, all thanks to bloody Anthony, who couldn't have possibly waited another half hour before barging in and completely foiling his one chance to achieve his life's purpose.

Nevertheless, the Judge himself made another appearance a couple of days afterward, strolling leisurely, yet intently in front of the building that housed the businesses of Todd and his pie-baking accomplice.

The initial sighting nearly made Sweeney's heart explode, making him too excited to question the oddity that was this unlikely phenomenon. It made no difference to him _why_ the Judge had come back, or whether or not he had decided to overlook Sweeney's affiliation with the heinous sailor and continue business with him. As long as he was here, in the chair, bare-necked beneath the gleaming razor. But much to the chagrin of the barber, Judge Turpin did not make the trek up the stairs to the shop. After inspecting the windows of Mrs. Lovett's crowded pie shop, he continued on his way home, not giving the upstairs even slight acknowledgement.

This act alone sent Sweeney into a silent rage that spanned over an evening and morning, during which he lashed out frequently and unprovoked at both Mrs. Lovett and Toby, refusing to divulge the cause. Both of the recipients of his wrath were not entirely surprised at this behavior, but Mrs. Lovett did think that screaming at some one for spilling a bit of tea on his table when bringing up his breakfast was a bit excessive, even for Mr. Todd. Such an act would normally have elicited an apathetic response, if one at all.

The sulking was interrupted when Judge Turpin appeared once more that evening, presumably on his way home from the court. The barber once more became hopeful, hurrying to clean up the mess from his last customer that had failed to satiate his hunger for the Judge's blood. Once again, the Judge peered curiously into Mrs. Lovett's windows for a few minutes, appearing as though he was searching for something- or someone- between the intricate patterns of the stained lace curtains. Upon completion, he reluctantly continued on his way home.

A vicious cycle had begun that continued for another week of the Judge coming, Sweeney overreacting, the Judge leaving without a shave, and Sweeney pouting violently until the next day at five thirty. After a while, however, Sweeney calmed down long enough to begin to wonder about the Judge's purpose. This didn't assist with his growing frustration, as he couldn't for the life of himself figure out a logical reason for the Judge's visitations, on top of the fact that his intended's presence was a disconcerting tease.

He had been tempted to go out there and approach the Judge himself. He didn't know what he would say or do, that would have to be improvised. It seemed so unfair, so extremely unjust, that the Judge was waiting right outside, nearly in the palm of Sweeney's hand at the same time every day, yet was so unobtainable. It was enough to drive him mad, had he not already achieved that state long ago.

"Don't you do it, Mr. T," Mrs. Lovett had warned one evening when she brought up his dinner, intuitively knowing his intents from her close knowledge of him. "You go out there and we're both done for."

"I don't intend to kill him in broad daylight," he scoffed in response, wiping a cloth mindlessly up and down the blade of his beloved while never tearing his gaze from the window.

"No, cours' not," she reassured, brushing her skirts as she stood from setting down the tray of food. "I give you more credit than that, Mr. T. All I meant was that someone would catch on, is all. What, with unusual behavior like approaching a customer outside."

The barber, as he typically did, pretended to ignore her. He couldn't give her the satisfaction of his acknowledgment of her being right, even though he knew full-well she was, and usually was in most situations. Though his sole purpose was to kill the Judge and what happened afterwards was of little consequence to him, he couldn't afford to fail in any attempts to redeem himself, especially in front of such a large crowd of witnesses. Such a gesture would spark suspicions, which would lead to an investigation, which would lead to a discovery of the real work being done by Mr. Todd and his landlady, which would ultimately land them in the gallows before he was given his moment of salvation.

"Why don't you get ya' self away from that window and come have some supper?" Mrs. Lovett offered, pulling him gently by the arm. He resisted, planting his feet firmly in his current position.

"Why don't you go downstairs and mind your customers?" He warned abrasively, still neglecting to tear his gaze away from the Judge.

She bit her lip, hurt from his curtness, but was determined not to say anything that would ignite his unpredictable rage.

"You're tearin' yourself up watchin' him like that," she mentioned softly, making her way to stand beside him at the window. "We'll find a way to 'im, love. But it will have to be more inconspicuous than this."

Sweeney turned from the window and began slowly pacing in front of his bureau, attention fixated on cleaning his already immaculate razor.

"And I suppose you've never noticed him there," he began hoarsely. "Gazing through your windows as if it was a bloody museum…"

Mrs. Lovett hesitated to answer. She had noticed him, alright. She had noticed how he surveyed her as she passed from table to table, with an expression not to dissimilar from the one he gave Lucy 15 years ago. The only difference was he did not carry flowers, knowing all too well that he wouldn't need them to get an unrefined tart like her, what with her chest practically spilling out of the top of her dress. Additionally, Mrs. Lovett was not so oblivious to the Judge's intents as Lucy had been. Perhaps it was because this situation was not foreign to her, as she had experienced several men, on separate occasions, who were hot for a little more than pie stalking around her shop, expecting her to give it up willy-nilly. She had stopped being offended by it, but rarely obliged these unconventional suitors, unless she had a thirst to slake herself. After all, it had been some time since Albert's death, and even in life the intimacy was not grade A. But she was a little more than reluctant to spend time with Judge, which caused her to pause before answering her barber. She wasn't sure if he'd encourage her to entice him in order to bring him back to the shop, but she wasn't keen on taking chances.

"Well, a' cours' I 'ave," she responded nonchalantly, toying with a handkerchief. "Didn't think much of it, though. I 'ave been too busy with the customers."

"What does he want?" Sweeney queried rhetorically, or rather, rhetorically to Mrs. Lovett as he neither expected nor desired an answer from her. He came back to the window as he spoke, both confirming the Judge's presence and attempting to emphasize to Mrs. Lovett how much he didn't need her there. Yet, obliviously, and to the aggravation of Sweeney, she remained, chewing slightly on the end of her handkerchief and mulling over her thoughts.

"Since you have nothing to add to this conversation, I suggest you continue to mind your customers," He suggested firmly, slightly shifting towards her.

"Well, Mr. T, it's difficult for another individual to add to a one-sided conversation, now isn' it?" she challenged, annoyed with his lack of faith in her knowledge. She knew the answers to his questions, and even though she was reluctant to divulge the true reasons for the Judge's presence, she didn't appreciate his instant assumption that she was clueless. Couldn't he have grilled her a little?

Offended by her unusual impertinence, Sweeney completely spun on his heel to face her, razor extended, threateningly. Though there was much about her and the relationship they shared that annoyed him greatly, the one thing he appreciated was her abiding respect for him and his dominant position in the partnership. They both lived tit-for-tat; he provided the product that had made her business soar. Without him, she was a lonely pie maker, forced to succumb to kidnapping cats, scraping carcasses off the street, and soliciting herself to make enough of a profit to pay off the building dues. She owed him the satisfaction by being submissive to his will. He needed it, and the only way to preserve it was to intimidate every time she resisted.

"Don't make me repeat myself, Mrs. Lovett." he warned firmly, waiting for her breath to shorten and eyes to widen in response. Instead, her lips morphed into a sneer of disgust and her eyes made a 360 degree revolution in her sockets.

"You want to know what the bloody Judge is doin' there?" she sighed, glancing casually at her worn, dirt-rimmed nails. She figured she might as well tell him. Perhaps then he would learn to invest more faith in her intuition.

His response was in his quizzical, exasperated expression.

"He _was_ window shopping. He has now found the sort of trinket he's lookin' for and is wondering how he'll charm his way to afford it." she explained casually, leaning against her clenched fist.

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

Sweeney lowered his weapon, intrigued by Mrs. Lovett's statement. He attempted to maintain his intimidating aura, however, not wanting her to believe she had gotten the best of him.

"Scoff if you will, Mr. T," she began, mindlessly pacing and inspecting the dust-thickness of the arm rest of the infamous chair. She then glanced knowingly at him before saying, "but he's been looking at me."

Surprisingly enough to her, Sweeney did not make a mockery of her claim. Instead, his eyes began searching the ground desperately as he commenced pacing once more, his arms hovering uselessly beside him.

"Of course," he replied. He knew it made perfect sense and was rather frustrated that he hadn't of figured it out on his own.

"Whaddya mean, of course?" Mrs. Lovett enquired, wondering what such a response implied.

"What other sort of motivation could he have?"

"An' I suppose my good looks and womanly charms have nuthin' to do with it, eh?" Mrs. Lovett ventured sarcastically, attempting to lighten the mood but also to coerce Sweeney into complementing her.

"A woman should expect such attention when parading around in those ridiculously revealing dresses of yours," he responded coldly, resuming his detail cleaning on the razor.

Brainless twit, he thought to himself. _Revealing dresses_ doesn't even begin to encompass the reasons a man like Judge Turpin would pursue her, and she should know it. Sweeney Todd might have been a highly preoccupied man, having little concern towards Mrs. Lovett in general. But he was not so dense, he assured himself, to not notice the openly obliging and often-flaunted sexuality of Mrs. Lovett. He also was not blind, and therefore had not failed to see her sickeningly ample chest that often threatened to release itself from the not-so-restricting confines of her corset. That was not to mention her rather curvaceous and wanton form that her aforementioned dresses did little to disguise. These were not attributes of hers that the barber went out of his way to observe, and often reminded himself how disgusting her whorish behavior and appearance was. Though he was sometimes conflicted on what he found more repulsive; Mrs. Lovett's sexual prowess or the betraying, invigorated response of his lower body part whenever he saw her in the compromising position of cleaning the kitchen tiles, on all fours, backside protruding, breasts swaying pendulously back and forth with her strokes. It was moments like these that he had to forgive himself for being a slave to his own body and assume that such a response did not reflect a more inward, repressed, and deep emotion.

"So what should I do then?" Mrs. Lovett asked gravely, breaking him from his current train of thought.

He winced at her voice, wishing she would find it in herself to be silent, for once. Though perhaps such a thought process was better left unresolved, he decided.

"Perhaps you should leave me and mind your customers, as I've asked you to do repeatedly."

"No, no," she corrected, waving her arms in irritation, seemingly unaffected by his deliberate abrasiveness. "I mean about Turpin. Would you like for me to oblige his wishes? I mean, just to get 'im back 'ere…"

He hadn't expected her to bring up the possibility so quickly. Though she often acted the part of a dense, calamitous tart, Mrs. Lovett was actually quite clever, when she wanted to be. The pies _were_ her idea after all. Even though this plan was more of a mutual concoction, she was smart enough to be willing to entice the Judge. So smart and so obliging in fact, that Sweeney was willing to overlook her previous lie of being oblivious to the Judge's intents.

"Yes," he agreed firmly and quietly. "Do whatever it takes."


	2. Call me Nellie

Mrs. Lovett did not consider herself a common prostitute, despite the fact that she had, on more than one occasion, sold her services. For one thing, she had never affiliated herself with any of the London brothels, nor had she ever stood for an extended period of time on a street corner, nor even approached an unfamiliar gentleman with raunchy offers. The deed had always been undertaken with men that she knew, or was at least somewhat acquainted with before hand, who were willing to strike a bargain with her. This practice of familiarity was done both for comfort and safety on her part, as she knew just as well as any one else about the young call girls who were disappearing into the night and being found the next morning in pieces. Besides, she didn't relish receiving financial compensation for sex and only used it as a last resort. When thinning out the pie dough, using dying street animals for meat, and tailoring women's dresses for a few shillings a piece was not enough, Mrs. Lovett did what was necessary to make ends meet.

Immersing herself in this practice every once and a while had made her well versed in the ways of tolerance. She had learned how to sleep with someone that physically repulsed her, which was to close her eyes and imagine herself by the sea until he had gotten his- because she rarely got hers. This, of course, was rather simple compared to the foreplay, which every man was different about. Some made it easy and just did what they had initially agreed on, then left, leaving in their wake a stack of coins. Some men, however, asked her to perform unusual favors as part of the seduction ritual, such as donning strange outfits and doing a bit of character acting.

She tried to guess what sort of acts Judge Turpin would request of her as she struggled to select the perfect seduction gown to wear for that evening's dinner rush. The thought alone made her shudder, knowing him to be quite the nymphomaniac. He had probably already concocted a whole array of sickening activities to involve her in, assuming that a woman like her was already familiar with such practices and wouldn't need coaxing. Though she knew such an assumption was correct, she was tired of men like he and Mr. Todd not giving her the benefit of the doubt.

Her thoughts then shifted to her beloved barber, whom she already heard pacing the floorboards above her, as she laid the dress of choice over her bed. If relations with the Judge got to the point of actually performing carnal acts, she was well-prepped to tolerate them on her own, but it didn't hurt that she was doing it for Mr. T. Didn't he know that she would have done _anything_ for him? Did he think she was pleased or enthused about pursuing the Judge? Perhaps, once again, he was unjustly assuming things based upon her prior behavior.

That evening's rush seemed to arrive more abruptly than most, or so it seemed to Mrs. Lovett. Before she knew it, it was five o'clock and she was having Toby lace up her corset so that her breasts seemed more pronounced. She was at her bureau, bent over slightly and leaning on the wood surface as Toby struggled to yank the strings tighter from a few feet away. She was currently clad only in her sable undergarments and orange-and-black striped stockings, her chest assets now protruding invitingly as Toby finished up his task. This was hardly a state of being for Sweeney Todd to see her in, so it was rather inconvenient when he approached the open door of her room, wondering where the hell she was and why she had not already gone downstairs to mind shop and await the Judge.

Luckily enough, Mrs. Lovett and Toby were too preoccupied with proper lacing to hear Mr. Todd approach, or even notice him standing there, hypnotized, in the door way.

"Toby, you've got the strings all wrong, love…" she griped, attempting to reach back and yank them out of his hand.

"I'm trying as hard as I can, mum," he assured, struggling to keep his patience. "I've never had to lace up a corset before…"

The small spat lead to someone knocking a piece of Mrs. Lovett's jewelry to the floor where it proceeded to roll underneath the bed.

"Oh bugger it…" she sighed, turning from Toby and getting down on hands and knees to search for the run-away item.

Sweeney nearly choked seeing her there clad only in her under clothes and in the same position that so often led his mind astray. The current state of her breasts didn't help, and neither did the image of her legs and bum, extending skywards, in the close fabric of her knickers. He cursed, feeling the result of the position between his legs. He immediately left, attempting to cover the condition with his razor and cloth, knowing he would have to drop a bag of ice on the area of distress before receiving any customers.

"That damned woman…"

--

The dress she had selected was no lighter in color than any of her other frocks, but she figured that black was seductive in it's own right. The cleavage was surrounded by a rim of ruffled, equally-as-black-as-the-dress lace, that she hoped would help capitalize the remarkable state of her chest. She had paid a bit more attention to her make up, and chose jewelry that would complement her eyes, but otherwise remained loyal to her usual appearance. The Judge had already noticed her and decided what he wanted, right?

Mrs. Lovett instructed Toby to keep an eye out for the Judge, as she knew she would be too busy and probably overlook him entirely, what with her repeated trips in between the shop and the bake house. As she had expected, five thirty came around, and she was completely immersed in conversation with the tailor's wife about stitching patterns and failed to notice Turpin come sauntering by her window. As per her instructions, Toby came up behind her and coughed twice before grabbing another tray of pies, indicating the man's presence. Mrs. Lovett looked up slightly, unexpectedly making eye contact with the man outside.

The initial contact startled her, but she soon muscled passed it and managed to feign a sly grin in response. He returned the expression, nodding slightly in acknowledgement. Excusing herself from the conversation of threads and needles, Mrs. Lovett headed outside, armed with a wash cloth so to seem busy and preoccupied when she initiated conversation with the Judge.

Knowing how much men love indifference, Mrs. Lovett didn't give the Judge the slightest turn of the head as she made her way to a nearby, empty table, acting as if she had completely forgotten their faraway contact from inside the building. She had just begun wiping down the selected table, bent over strategically so that her chest was displayed in the Judge's direction, when he spoke to her.

"Good evening."

She could hear him approaching and saw his movement in front of her, even while she pretended to be occupied.

" 'Ello there," she replied casually, standing up slightly but never letting her attention drift towards him.

"Did ya come in for a pie, sir?"

"For now, I think I'll settle for your name," he responded in a rather surprisingly debonair manner, attempting to regain contact with her eyes. She allowed him the pleasure, giving him the familiar grin from earlier as a bonus.

"Mrs. Lovett, sir," she said softly, intentionally trying to sound breathy and increasingly provocative. "But please, do call me Nellie."

The Judge nodded complaisantly as he answered, "Very well then. If the lady wishes it…"

"I wish much more that you come in and try one of me pies, sir," she teased, folding up the useless cloth carefully into squares. "They're some of the best in London, make no mistake."

"So I hear," Turpin replied, nodding once more. "Unfortunately, I have prior engagements for dinner this evening with an acquaintance."

"Aw," Mrs. Lovett sighed, her lips morphing into an exceedingly exaggerated pout. "Wha' a shame…"

The Judge then stepped a bit closer, a move that made Mrs. Lovett feel slightly perturbed on the inside. Outwardly, however, she utilized both body language and facial expressions to insinuate that she wanted nothing more than to be as close as possible to this slightly unpleasant smelling sexual deviant.

"But perhaps I could come by some time tomorrow after the dinner rush has subsided. I would enjoy getting to know you better, and I can only imagine that business such as this evening's would keep you occupied."

" 'course, sir," she agreed, knowingly winking at him. "Business dies down around eight thirty, and by nine I'm completely at a loss for work. It'll be nice to 'ave some company."

He then bowed, a movement of reverence that Mrs. Lovett typically never saw a man do, unless he was conversing with a lady of respect and nobility. Never before had she been given the pleasure herself, but neither did she expect it. No woman of the lower class East-end society did, as a matter of fact. As if such a gesture was not overwhelming enough for her, Judge Turpin gently took her hand and planted a small kiss on the rough, lace-gloved surface. As a result, she found herself at a loss for words and noise, with the exception of a small squeak she managed to elicit in substitution.

"Until then, Mrs. Nellie Lovett."

" 't-t-twas a pleasure, sir…"

She was still shaking in awe, even as he strolled passed her, down the street and into the sea of Londoners. The condition continued to wreak havoc as she resumed her work, causing her to drop a tray of pies and trip over table legs on numerous, separate occasions.

--

The pouring of gin and the occasional clatter of carriages over the cobblestone operated as the only noise within the pie shop, as a veil of silence had fallen between the barber and his baker. This was typically the way it was in the evenings, after Sweeney had taken care of his last customer. He would be exceedingly somber as he came down to the shop, and sit dazed as he allowed Mrs. Lovett to pour him some form of alcohol, the type depending mostly upon Toby's drink preference that day. He would let her ramble on, feeling as though he was performing a generous favor. She had soon learned that speaking on her own would be speaking to herself, even if Mr. Todd was sitting less than inches away. He never added anything concrete to the discussions, because he never bothered to really listen. And so silence finally prevailed over the two, being a mutual, unspoken understanding that it was the most appropriate action to take.

Ten minutes passed in which Sweeney sat stone still, gazing wide-eyed into his gin glass. Though it seemed to Mrs. Lovett that he had fallen to prey to one of his usual reveries that involved Lucy, his mind was actually far from his former wife. He had been far too preoccupied with his customers that evening to watch for the Judge or make sure Mrs. Lovett was fulfilling their agreement, so he was extremely curious to know how the exchange had gone. He wanted to know how soon she would have him back in their clutches, how much longer he would have to wait before his razor was slicing through the bastard's throat. However, he felt slightly hesitant to bring the matter up. He wasn't sure what the cause of the reluctance was. Awkwardness, he supposed.

"How did it go today?" he questioned finally, his voice raspy from the lack of speaking. Mrs. Lovett was leaning her face on her palm, cradling a pint of ale in the other hand.

"Hmm?" she replied, glancing over towards him. "What was that?"

"The Judge," Sweeney stated firmly after taking a swig of the gin, grimacing both from the taste and from impatience. "Did you speak to the Judge?"

"Oh darlin', with the way I'm dressed today I sure hope so," she sighed, tracing a finger around the rim of the pint mug.

Sweeney would have given her a warning glance to communicate his growing irritation, had she been looking at him. Unfortunately, her attention was focused solely upon her beverage, and so he was forced to take drastic action. He then grabbed the wrist of the hand that cradled the mug, and yanked it over towards him, knocking over the drink and dragging her closer to his end of the booth.

"Aw, Mr. T, look wha' a mess you've made!" she exclaimed as the alcohol splashed onto the fabric of her dress, the wood of the seat, and finally, the tile floor.

"Did you or did you not speak to the Judge, Mrs. Lovett?"

She squirmed uncontrollably, attempting to free herself from his uncomfortably tight grasp on her tiny wrist.

"Yes, yes, for god's sake yes!" she exclaimed, beginning to feel a blunt pain from his grip and hoping that such a response would encourage him to let go. He did not free her, and instead pulled her closer, which he felt was necessary given that she was doing all she could to turn away from him.

"And what did he say?" Sweeney insisted through gritted teeth.

Though she typically was not so defiant, Mrs. Lovett felt that in this case she had an advantage over her partner, which could leverage her into overcoming his constant dominance. She had also grown quite tired with the amount of disrespect she had to endure from him day after day. If a rapist with poor hygiene could treat her like a lady, Sweeney certainly could find it in himself to do the same. Having already made up her mind about the situation, Mrs. Lovett tugged herself in the opposite direction in one swift, drastic movement, hoping the suddenness of it would startle Sweeney enough to let her go. Instead, his grasp remained firm, causing her to bounce back against him.

The series of events that took place as a result of Mrs. Lovett's physical recalcitrance were like that of a domino effect, but with side-effects that were less then comfortable for the two parties involved. Or for that of Sweeny, anyway.

The force of Mrs. Lovett's body crashing against Sweeney's sent them both reeling backward to the floor, the table following as her legs kicked up in the air. The hand of Sweeney's that held on to Mrs. Lovett's wrist did not loosen, but instead fell beside his head, causing her to face him and, consequently, land directly on top of him in a strategic straddle on the floor.

The clattering of the wooden table hitting tile, followed by the shattering of the gin bottle filled the sudden, awkward silence as the realization of their current position dawned on the two accomplices. Neither one made a significant effort to move, even as alcohol began to seep up beside and underneath them. They both remained staring at one another wide-eyed, breathing heavily, for a good minute or two before Sweeney finally broke the quiescence with a whispered,

"Is the Judge coming?"

Mrs. Lovett nodded, too dumbstruck by the unbelievable euphoria of her position with Mr. Todd to remember her rebellious efforts. "Tomorrow," she replied softly. "At eight. To see me alone."

Sweeney simply nodded, his eyes wandering aimlessly, as if searching for a way to escape the warm position between his landlady's legs. The feeling of being so close to her, as sickeningly provocative as it was for him, did not effect him in a perilous way until she began twisting and shifting around, reaching for the glasses that had clattered to the ground without bothering to get up off of him. This movement of hers had been unintentionally sensual, making him inhale sharply as he felt danger literally growing in the area that she sat. Unfortunately, Mrs. Lovett apparently felt it growing as well, as her eyes shot open in surprise and her efforts to gather up the glasses were abruptly halted.

He hastily pushed her off of him and stood up, facing the direction of the side door to the alley so that his embarrassing condition wouldn't be so apparent. He could tell that Mrs. Lovett was already well aware, judging by the slack-jawed expression of awe on her face and the slight, mocking smirk that was creeping up the corner of her mouth.

_Don't you dare laugh,_ he thought to himself. _One sound out of you and you'll regret ever having been as bloody attractive as you are…_

"Keep the Judge in the shop," he said sternly, adjusting his coat. "Or where ever it is he requests to be taken. I'll take it from there."

With that said, he left out the door leading to the alleyway that housed the stairs to his barber shop. There was access to the top floor within the house and had he taken them, he wouldn't have had to face the unforgiving winter chill of London. But Mrs. Lovett knew, as well as he, that a biting frost was exactly what he needed after being pinned beneath her.


	3. Blood Spirals

A/N: I apologize for the uncharacteristically long wait. This seems to be a fairly long chapter though (8 pages long on my Word Processor to be exact), as I couldn't seem to ever find a good stopping point. Also, I forgot to leave an author's note on the previous chapter, so I'm going to attempt to cover all bases with this one. Did anyone pick up on the reference to Jack the Ripper in the last chapter? I'll give kudos to anyone that can pick that out(put it in the comments if you want said kudos). I think I'm doing Johnny Depp right by alluding to one of his favorite serial killers, though what's the chance of him reading Sweeney Todd fanfics, anyway? But I digress.

To be honest, I'm not crazy about chapter two. I guess I feel that it was rushed and I'm a little embarrassed about how erection-happy I seemed to have been with poor Sweeney Todd. But nevertheless, you guys seemed to have enjoyed it, found it humorous, etc. and that's really all that matters. I also want to assure you guys that Mrs. Lovett is not falling in love with Judge Turpin. I don't want to go into much more detail about it, but I just want you to know that she is _not that desperate. _

So Chapter 3 doesn't really fall into the humor category as much as the other chapters did, but since I'm dealing with some serious personal emotions and whatnot, I figured that light-heartedness would be less than appropriate (not to mention virtually impossible). I also had to do some research into Victorian courting etiquette for this one, as well as the meaning of flowers. By the way, the point in the story in which I refer to flowers meanings is based upon those they had in Victorian England. So if they happen to contradict modern day's significances (and you happen to be a tight-ass flower genius) I apologize. I know nothing about flowers other than what I learned for my writing.

Alright, that's it. Enjoy!

--

_This is the very last time I agree to have dinner with this man…_

There was something oddly fascinating about the repulsive way Beadle Bamford consumed food. Judge Turpin likened it to a rat- or any kind of pudgy, slimy rodent- that had been denied substance for a week. The Beadle always ate quickly, with little care as to where the crumbs and morsels flew. He dined with a certain sort of indescribable desperation, as if at any moment some sort of creature larger and more powerful than he would snatch the food away. He also had the terrible habit of keeping his mouth open while he chewed, a dining taboo that the Judge had previously thought everyone learned to avoid from their mothers in infancy. The smacking of degrading food between jaws was enough to keep the Judge away from his own dinner, and consequently with no other choice but to watch his guest greedily stuff his face, unable to turn away.

"Quite a lot of trails today," The Judge began, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "I believe I sentenced thirty to the gallows."

The Beadle nodded with a false earnest, ceasing his consumption to wipe his mouth and say, "A new record for you, my lord! Thirty in one day!"

The Judge wrinkled his nose, grimacing at yet another example of the Beadle's constant boot-licking. "No," he sighed, drumming his fingers on the table. "I've had much more than that before in one day."

The Beadle continued eating, seemingly unaware of the Judge's repugnance towards him. The small troll of a man was hardly a friend to him, yet, he couldn't imagine their relationship being anything less than what it was. _Whatever it was_. They seemed to coexist together in a certain sort of odd, symbiotic relationship. The Beadle always undertook the difficult or less appealing sides of their mutually concocted plans, while the Judge reaped the rewards. In return, the Beadle's political career was furthered from being in the presence of Turpin constantly. In addition, Turpin was occasionally able to give Beadle Bamford some manner of woman to toy with for a while.

The unfortunate truth was that the Judge held a strong dislike for his accomplice, and one that was not so over-seeable as the Beadle was constantly doing something to remind the Judge of how much he abhorred him. Turpin was fairly certain the feeling was mutual, which didn't really matter that much to either man as they both hated and were hated frequently by many, and it was only one more thing they had in common.

They certainly were an odd pair, the Judge had to admit, but a pair none the less. He had come to accept the fact that Beadle Bamford was always going to be a part of his reality, however aggravating he might have been.

"You know, my lord," The Beadle said, interrupting his feasting orgy. "I am terribly sorry about your engagement. I don't believe I had been given the chance to offer my condolences."

"No matter," The Judge answered casually, inspecting his nails. "There is a new item on the market."

The Beadle raised his eyebrows, too intrigued by the Judge's announcement to mind his food.

"Oh really?" he responded, his voice adapting a tone of insinuation. "And what is the name of the lucky young woman?"

The Judge snickered, glancing over at the Beadle, knowingly. "My good man, you assume too much to describe her as young. She's a widow, as a matter of fact."

Beadle Bamford chuckled along with the Judge, shaking his head. "You seem to have a taste for the spent hags, my lord. First the Barker woman and now _this._ I'll never understand such a fascination."

"This isn't any common _hag_, Bamford," The Judge corrected, almost defensively. "It happens to be Nellie Lovett, the baker of the pie shop on Fleet."

The Beadle nearly choked on another attempt to shovel fingerling potatoes in his mouth upon hearing the name of the Judge's current interest.

"Nellie Lovett?" he repeated. "Albert's Nellie?"

"The very same," The Judge nodded proudly.

Bamford's disbelief came from the notorious perception of Nellie Lovett as an intangible tease, both before and during her marriage. She had always maintained a certain ethereal, inviting beauty, the kind most young harlots have before they've grown old and jaded. She was always improper, acting more like a man than a woman. Because of all of these wonderfully unusual traits, many of the young men she was acquainted with desired to engage in flings with her, and because of her behavior and appearance, such a longing seemed entirely possible to fulfill. Unfortunately, Nellie harbored dreams of being a proper lady, like the rest of the members of her sex in London. Even while at 16, she was not too shy to lift her skirts up around her thighs and trudge through the sewers while playing tag with her male friends, she refused these proposals for casual relationships. This was especially frustrating, as Nellie was simply not the kind of woman a man wanted to marry. For a long term investment, proper men were expected to marry proper women, the kind that were niave and dumb, and would scream bloody murder when seeing a rat. Nellie was the kind of woman that should have become a full-time prostitute, or at the very least, been more obliging with her sexuality.

It was fortunate for her that a certain man, Albert Lovett, who was at least twenty years older than she, fell in love and requested she marry him. She agreed, Albert being somewhat well-off and able to fund her dream of having a pie shop. But most importantly, Albert offered a life of propriety and safety from the men who only wanted to use her as an escape from the sexual drudgery of their everyday lives. When Albert died, men like the Beadle began to gravitate back towards her, hoping that she now would be more lenient with her standards. Despite a few scattered gloats from men claiming that she put out for them in exchange for a few shillings, Nellie turned up her nose at most, waiting for the day when she would remarry, much to the disappointment of these aforementioned men.

"You have such a way with women, my lord," Bamford praised. "But then again, not even a woman like Nellie Lovett could turn a blind eye to the charms that you possess."

The Judge smirked, knowing the Beadle was right. Even if the intended woman wasn't as attracted to Turpin as he to her, which he couldn't see as likely, there was no earthly way she could turn down the life of power and influence that he offered. Though there had been refusals in the past, such as that of Lucy and her daughter, he blamed their intimidation as the cause. He found himself quite the daunting specimen, especially for women as light-hearted as the Barker's. Women like Nellie Lovett, however, were a different story. She seemed intimidating enough in her own right, which was, perhaps, what peaked Turpin's interest in the first place.

"Do consider though, my lord," The Beadle began to advise, "Having that Barber I told you about give you a shave. It will be rather convenient, seeing as how he resides in the lady's upstairs."

"Funny you should mention that barber," Turpin responded, putting a distasteful emphasis on the occupation title. "Did I never tell you just how I found out about Johanna's deceptive behavior?"

"No," Bamford replied ardently, again playing up his interest in what the Judge was saying. "Has it something to do with Mr. Todd?"

"It has everything to do with Mr. Todd," he exclaimed, pounding his fist on the wood of the dining table and making the silverware rattle. "He was going to house my little slattern of a ward for that bloody sailor."

The Beadle clucked his tongue disapprovingly and shook his head to emphasize his false empathy for the Judge.

"I don't know the exact nature of his relationship with Nellie Lovett," The Judge began gravely. "But I know that two members of the opposite sex cannot live together for very long without there being some sort of arrangement. I intend to go under his very nose, as he did to me, and swiftly take that source of sexual relief from him. We'll see just how much he appreciates it when the tables are turned."

The Beadle nodded, trying to maintain a sense of interest even as he commenced dessert. "There is definitely some sort of unspoken attraction," he added. "But who would choose a barber over Judge Turpin?"

The Judge rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his grin widening as he planned the evening that would steal Nellie Lovett from her hair-trimming lover.

"Precisely," he whispered.

--

"Is the Judge courting you, mum?"

Toby sat cross-legged on Mrs. Lovett's bed, watching curiously as she powdered her face at the vanity. He had been full of questions for her the entire day, his inquisitiveness being piqued by her decision to close shop after the lunch rush. She continued to brush away his queries, giving vague answers or changing the subject completely. This evening however, when she was caught between him and her evening preparations, he figured she wouldn't be able to escape from giving him concrete answers.

"Silly boy, what led you to believe that?" she replied, focusing entirely on completely blending the alabaster powder into her already pallid complexion.

"I saw the two of you talkin' last night," he explained, changing the cross of his legs. "And now you're makin' yourself up to go out. I don't mean to be nosy, mum. I've just put two and two together, is all."

That, of course, wasn't the only factor that helped Toby's logic. He didn't want to embarrass or dishonor Mrs. Lovett by mentioning the flowers that had arrived for her on the doorstep earlier that day. The arrangement included jonquils and blossoms of white ranunculus. If Aldolfo Pirelli not had such an undying love and interest in flowers, Toby probably would have thought very little of it. Knowing the deeper meaning behind such flowers, as taught by his former guardian, changed matters entirely. The jonquils signified desire, begging the recipient to return the affections of the sender. Ranunculus simply told the recipient that she was full of charm and radiance. Such an arrangement could have only been sent by a newer admirer, one that was well-learned(or at least well-advised) in the meanings of flowers. No lower class gentleman would have had access to such knowledge, save for the select few that worked in the floral shops.

"Now, now," Mrs. Lovett coaxed, placing the powder puff in the respective jar. "There's no need to worry, dear. Your ol' Mrs. Lovett can take care of herself."

"Oh, I'm not worried, mum," Toby assured, conjuring up a grin for her to see in the vanity mirror. "I think it's brilliant."

Before Mrs. Lovett was able to give him an endearing smile in return while she worked on her hair, the sound of Mr. Todd's approaching footsteps on the wood paneling shattered the moment. Toby had learned well enough by this point not to hang around when Mr. Todd came to talk to his landlady, as much as he would have liked to. He didn't completely trust the barber and was afraid that he did awful, abusive things to Mrs. Lovett when no one was looking. Toby wasn't old or strong enough to do much about the situation yet, but he had vowed to himself that when the day came that he could punish Mr. T for his crimes against such a noble lady, he would take advantage of the opportunity.

"Mum," Toby mentioned softly before disappearing into the hallway. "I think its great that you're seein' someone respectable, someone that's good enough for you, that is. I'll bet he'll protect you from the people who mistreat you."

Mrs. Lovett could feel her stomach sinking, as she often did whenever Toby began dropping vague hints. A large part of her that she often tried to suppress knew exactly what he was trying to say, who he was talking about, and that he was completely correct. But she so badly didn't want to believe him.

_By the sea, Mr. T, where there's no one nosy…_

"Here now, what are you on about, love?" she queried, spinning around in her seat to face him. By the time she did so, however, Toby was gone and Sweeney had replaced his presence in her doorway. The bright, eager young eyes of Toby were now the sunken, dark, empty orbs that occupied the sockets of Mr. Todd's skull. In all respects they were looking at her, but she knew better. Mr. Todd never completely looked at her, never truly saw her. She was a ghost to him; only a thin outline of her true self, only capable of being sighted at select times.

"It's eight," Sweeney muttered expectantly. "Where is the Judge, and why aren't you downstairs to receive him?"

"Now, now, calm down, dear," she replied, pretending to focus on her reflection rather than him. "Don't you know a lady is supposed to have a gentleman wait? I can't seem too eager, that would be improper."

"Heaven forbid," Sweeney scoffed sarcastically, walking over to a small window in her room that looked out over the London streets. A moment passed in which Sweeney watched the evening crowds scuttle around the streets and Mrs. Lovett worked tirelessly on her hair, the two remaining silent. He interrupted with the sudden observation, "It smells different in here…"

"Oh yeah," she responded, lifting the bouquet she had received earlier that day from her floor to the vanity. "Got this from ol' Turpin."

Sweeney glanced over at the flower arrangement slightly, trying to seem less interested in it than he actually was. "Did you read the letter attachment?" he asked, noticing the small envelope tucked between two blossoms.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. 'Says he wants to take me out dancing this evening,"

Sweeney pressed his eyelids shut tightly, feeling his patience slipping from him like sand through an hourglass. "What?" he stated sharply, his voice raising. Mrs. Lovett could hear the edge of frustration and anger sharpening in his tone and attempted to rectify matters so that he wouldn't once again use her as a medium to vent his rage.

"It'll only be for a short while," she pledged, attempting to monitor his reactions through the reflection in the mirror. "I'll bring 'im back 'ere, o' course. It's just that I haven't been taken out by a gentleman in so long…"

_That damned, brazen woman._

Sweeney didn't know what about the situation infuriated him more; the fact that Mrs. Lovett was deliberately going against what they had planned, thereby lengthening the amount of time he had to wait to exact revenge, or the fact that she referred to the scum as a 'gentleman' right in front of him. He couldn't imagine what kind of entitlement Mrs. Lovett thought she possessed to be taken out, like some sort of bloody noblewoman. She ground-up dead bodies into pies, for Christ sake!.

"You will keep him here," he demanded softly, neglecting to mention all the reasons she should do so in an effort to spare her ranting. "That's what we agreed."

_Silly wench doesn't even have the clothes to go out…_

Mrs. Lovett stared at the reflection of the man across the room for a good while, saying nothing and keeping her teeth clenched, obediently. She had always been so passive, so willing to oblige to every one of her barber's demands, because of her strong fondness for him. Albert had been so servitorial to her during their marriage, hadn't he? That had to have been what true love was about, after all. Selflessness. But even if she hadn't of truly loved her husband, she still managed to find ways to show gratitude towards him for everything he did. In this case, however, she did everything she could to please her beloved and he couldn't have even found the time to _look_ at her, to _notice_ her, or to at least commend her performance at something besides hiding his crimes in baked goods. Before, she had thought her efforts to be resigned were caused by a need for Mr. Todd to appreciate her. But now, she realized that it was a subconscious craving for him just to notice her.

_Well, that clearly is doing a whole lot of nuthin'… _

"No, Mr. Todd." she stated finally, with a blatant tone of defiance. "That's what _you_ demanded. I will bring 'im back here once I've had my night out."

There was little that could have been done at that point to restrain Sweeney, as he spun around to face her, raising his arm so to backhand her for disrespect. He approached her swiftly and with purpose, ready to smack her sallow face into the glass of the mirror. Seeing the danger that was about to befall her, Mrs. Lovett stood from her seat at the vanity, preparing to do what was necessary to defend herself, _for once._

The sight that met his eyes, however, stopped him dead in his tracks. The woman that stood before him was not the Mrs. Lovett that dismembered bodies, rolled roach-infested pie dough, or swigged alcohol like an Irishman. The woman that he now beheld was a lady of respect, clad in a long, ebony evening gown with a bustle in the back that cascaded down her leg in ruffles like an onyx wave. Her mess of hair that so often stuck out in all directions now fell down her shoulders neatly, in coils of auburn with burning streaks of a fiery ruby red. All of these dark shades were contrasted by the snowy tint of her skin, reminding him of a scathingly chilly winter's night in the moors. The sight was enough to withhold his violence, as he likened such an action to breaking the canvas of a painted masterpiece over his knee.

"You're not goin' to hit me, are you Mr. T?" she asked softly, breaking his trance. He shook his head silently in reply, slowly lowering his arm to his side and turning away from her. "Mr.T? Are you alright?"

"What kind of a fool are you, Mrs. Lovett?" he insisted to know, making contact once more with the window so that he could reprimand her without distraction. "What possessed you to make you think going out with Judge Turpin was a wise decision?"

"Oh, what the bleedin' 'ell do you care?" she retaliated, turning back to her vanity to slip on white, elbow-length gloves.

Though her attempt to once more enrage him was successful, he found himself at a loss for words and actions. _Why did he care? What was Mrs. Lovett to him as long as he could get the Judge alone?_ The answers to these questions, he found, were buried deep beneath his malice and hatred, though existent none the less. He became afraid to explore this area of his subconscious, frightened of what truths it might reveal. But no matter how much he suppressed his inquisitive thoughts, he couldn't muscle pass the question of what, exactly, Mrs. Lovett meant to him.

A knock on the shop door saved him from having to dip his toes into any more of the uncharted waters that were his subconscious thoughts. Mrs. Lovett struggled to fasten the clasp of some dark, glittering pendant around her neck as she called to Toby to answer the call.

"Bleedin' thing…" she mumbled as the effort to secure the jewelry became more and more difficult. Matters were not improved when the fabric of her gloves became hooked on the metal, threatening to cause a very unattractive rip if she was any more hasty.

Sighing, Sweeney came up behind her, placing the razor and cloth that he had been preoccupying himself with on the surface of the vanity beside her. He took her fingers in his, ceasing her movement altogether, making Mrs. Lovett wonder if only she could feel the buzz of electricity that seemed to jolt from his fingertips. Working steadily and with a craftsman's focus, he loosened the slick fabric of the gloves from the metal without any harm, and successfully adhered the two ends of the jewelry together.

It would seem only appropriate for him to drop his hands at that point, await her to thank him so that he could reply with a "you're welcome", and leave the room to go about his business. Instead he lingered at the back of her neck, allowing the spirals of mahogany rust to fall in between his fingers. The color and texture reminded him of blood, of what it felt like to have a life force dripping from his palms to the edge of his fingertips, coagulating beneath his fingernails, and finally dripping to the floor. He remained behind her, gazing fixedly at the tresses in his hands, rubbing the strands gently between his fingers. Thoughts raced through the many tracks of his mind in nearly unintelligible blurs, not remaining long enough for him to even attempt to sort or translate.

_Blood, Lucy, Johanna, sharp metal, dying gasps, Beadle Bamford, Judge Turpin, Nellie Lovett… _

"Mrs. Lovett, mum?"

Toby's soft, docile voice demolished the silence like a hammer to glass. The shards of the moment lay around the feet of the baker and the barber, as Mrs. Lovett's eyes snapped open from her trance caused by Mr. Todd's unusual amount of attention. She immediately stood up, pulling the waves of her hair away from him abruptly.

"I'm coming Toby, I'm coming…"

She quickly snatched a black, laced fan from her vanity drawer before gathering her skirts and walking briskly to the stairs, leaving Sweeney alone with only the sense-memory and bitter-sweet scent of her hair on his fingertips.


	4. Masked Ball

A/N: PLEASE READ (AT LEAST A LITTLE BIT): Alright, so here's the next installment, finally. It's nice and long too, because who knows when I'll get chapter five out. So here's hoping this chapter doesn't suck too bad. I've read it over only a million times, and after doing that to piece of my own work, I begin to notice certain picky details that I'm sure you fine readers won't give two craps about. I get the feeling that my prose was a little rushed here, but maybe that's only my observation. _Hopefully._

Now to more important matters that I'd really like to touch on before anyone reads this. First of all, I'd like everyone to notice that this story is told, solely, from the perspectives of the characters. So far, its only been the three main individuals (Turpin, Lovett, Sweeney). I tried really hard to capture the essence of these perspectives and to dive into the subconscious of the character at hand so that I could accurately anticipate their reactions to certain situations.

I don't want anyone to misinterpret these perspectives with my own biases or opinions. Virtually no opinion or attitude expressed in this piece is my own. This is especially important to note in this particular chapter, as I have begun to deal with Lucy's rape. PLEASE keep in mind that I am depicting this occurrence from the point of view of the characters and it is not my intention to take the act of rape lightly, or to justify Judge Turpin's actions (even if he makes an attempt to do so in this chapter). I wasn't sure if this would even be an issue of controversy for my audience, but I thought it would be good to clarify just incase.

On a lighter note, I'd like to refer my readers to some amazing YouTube videos that inspired me to continue this story. The first can be found at /watch?vBL4md6ptP60 and is called 9 Crimes. It showcases a Nellie/ Sweeney/Turpin love triangle in a very artistic and beautiful way and was created by Danno4ever. The second is at /watch?vnYv0Rl9FZks and is called Between Love and Hate by angicuddles. This video is also well edited, but is a bit shorter and is a solely Lovett/Turpin shipping piece. If I could, I'd make these both trailers for my story. (BTW, are there any video editing wizards out there in need of a project just for fun? I'd love to have a trailer for this fic but, quite frankly, I don't have the time and Windows Movie Maker sucks butt. Let me know if you're interested, I'd be very appreciative.)

Okay, I think that's everything. Thanks for reading my digressive rant. As a treat, here's the story you intended to read in the first place.

--

"Do you think you'd ever marry Mrs. Lovett, sir?"

Toby gazed at the Judge with beaming admiration from his seat across from him in the dimly lit parlor. The older man returned both the question and the expression of the boy with a raised eyebrow and, as he often did when he felt perturbed in a social situation, a shift in his chair.

"And Is Eleanor Lovett your mother?" he queried with a feigned chuckle, attempting to change the direction of their conversation.

"I guess you could say that, yeah," Toby answered, shrugging. "She didn't pop me out on 'er own or nuthin', but she took me in just as if she had."

An uneasy, half-hearted smile crept up on the Judge's face in response to Toby's explanation, and he began searching the surrounding area for any signs of the woman he awaited.

"Any idea of when Mrs. Lovett will be ready, boy?"

Toby shook his head, replying, "No, but I was talkin' to her a moment ago and she seemed nearly done. I'll go check up on 'er."

Judge Turpin was relieved to see the boy disappear up the stairs to his foster mother's room. He wasn't sure how much more inquisition he could endure. It was unfortunate enough, he thought to himself, that Nellie Lovett had a son, but the fact that the boy appeared to be completely enamored with him was almost too much. He had never taken too fondly to children in general, accepting Johanna only because he felt it would be admirable of him to do so in the social eye, and perhaps out of some misplaced sense of obligation. Even then, he had hired nurses to monitor Johanna's behavior and tolerate the nasty childhood quirks. Little girls were fine with him, as long as they were kept a safe distance away and only presented when they were clean and charming. Boys, however, he avoided at all costs. His abhorrence only grew as Johanna got older and he had taken it upon himself to keep their filthy, lecherous claws away from her. Little boys seemed to maintain an aversion to gentility or charm, two traits that would make them much more appealing had they appeared at an earlier age than twenty-one.

Deciding to deter his thoughts, Judge Turpin rose from his chair and began to survey the decoration of the parlor. The wallpaper of choice was slightly floral, appearing to be of the kind that is quite expensive, when it wasn't charred at the very ends like the kind he observed now. Still, he felt that the color went nicely with the rest of the furniture and the overall aura of the room and mentally commended Mrs. Lovett on her fine tastes. He then transferred his attention to the millions of photographs she had resting in every available spot. Half of the photos seemed to depict what he'd assume to be elderly relatives, the other were of Albert and Nellie.

His thoughts began to wander to the rather familiar territory of sexual deviancy. There was no point suppressing these otherwise disturbing ideas, he had decided long ago, like the matter of how Albert was able to make love to Eleanor's petite frame without crushing it beneath his girth. He had always known Madam Lovett to be of the indestructible sort, but a feat such as that was far out of anyone's league that didn't match Albert in physical structure. He could only guess that she had to have been in the dominant position, a form of love-making that most Victorian men laughed at and applied only to those husbands that were kept on leash and chain by their wives. Which, of course, made perfect sense for Albert Lovett, as all the fellow males knew he fell under the aforementioned category. The thought was enough to excite the Judge, causing him to anticipate with great mirth the occasion in which he could literally, and figuratively, put Nellie Lovett in _her proper place._ The woman needed a firm hand to match her defiance, a challenge he was willing, and eager, to undertake.

"Sorry to keep you watin', sir," a feminine voice behind him apologized, audibly void of any breath.

The Judge turned around to view a woman he nearly didn't recognize. It was only when she lifted the edge of her skirts a good six feet off the ground to adjust her stockings that he could accurately identify her. Nellie Lovett could clean up well, that much he was now sure of. He had actually been hoping she would have made a ridiculous spectacle of herself in an attempt to look nice, and instead resemble something close to a harlot. _That_ would have made the other gentleman especially envious, and the stuck-up ladies that accompanied them turn-up their noses in offense, and out of a suppressed jealousy of their own. Somehow, though, he imagined that she would have no problem leaving her mark on the company of the finest, even if her dress of choice was especially refined and elegant.

"No need to apologize, madam," he assured, taking her gloved hand delicately in his and kissing it sweetly, as he had done before.

She smiled at him most invitingly, waving her fan in front of her face as though to hide a blush.

"You're too kind, sir," she gushed, glancing slightly behind her as she added, "Unlike most gentleman of my acquaintance."

Her current demeanor was beginning to drive him mad. It was like role-playing, a certain type of foreplay he personally preferred over all others. She was acting the proper, well-behaved lady, while he stole mischievous, knowing glances from her that suggested otherwise. It was teasing that he was beginning to enjoy greatly, yet didn't know how much longer he could withstand before she let him take her somewhere private and rip-off her metaphorical and, more importantly, physical disguise. This growing captivation was almost enough to distract him from whoever it was she was referring to when she mentioned "most gentleman", but curiosity got the better of him.

At the top of the stairs behind her, shrouded in shadow as to not be seen, yet still have his presence known, was the abhorrent barber. His sallow, sunken eyes stared menacingly down at the scene before him, particularly into the sockets of The Judge. The glint of his razor blade was the second most defined aspect of his physical presence in the dark, the second being the soul-piercing gaze. The silver shine would periodically disappear beneath the cover of a ratty cloth as he attempted to polish it, sporadically and mindlessly. The immaculate item was obviously not in need of such attention, making the action all the more unsettling.

"Are you ready, my dear?" Turpin asked, momentarily redirecting his attention to her. "I have a coach waiting outside."

"Oh, a coach!" she exclaimed with an abrupt inhale of air. "Blimey, I can't even remember the last time I went anywhere without usin' me two feet."

The Judge placed a hand strategically on the small of her back to guide her out the door, shooting a smug grin over his shoulder towards his audience at the top of stairs. He could almost hear the other man's teeth grind, satisfied with having successfully demonstrated to him that he wasn't intimidated.

The pair exited the shop, Turpin behind Nellie Lovett so as to open her door for her very chivalrously, and to get a good glance at the sway of her bustle as she walked to the carriage. His hand had only just graced the metal handle of the coach door, when bursting out from the pie shop came barber Todd, still wielding the tool of his trade.

This sudden action startled both of them, but more so Nellie, evidently, then the Judge. The look on the other man's face was what Turpin could only describe as crazed, utilizing what little he had of human insight. There seemed to be other emotions swimming beneath the most prevalent, that much he could tell, but he was a bit apathetic towards identifying them.

"Do forgive me, sir," Todd excused hoarsely, approaching Nellie and placing a firm hand on her shoulder opposite him. "I would like a word with my landlady before she departs for the evening."

The Judge sucked his teeth impatiently, eyeing the intruder with an unmistakable air of resentment. Nellie, however, had her back facing the Judge and therefore was able to safely give her accomplice an expression that screamed, "_What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"_

"Very well," Turpin resigned with reluctance, attempting to appear much taller and physically dominant to Todd. "I suppose after one ward, what's an evening escort among friends?"

Todd feigned amusement at Turpin's sarcasm, but didn't bother to conjure up some sort of sob story to explain his conspiracy with Anthony. He figured there was no point in wasting the effort, and after all, he was certain Mrs. Lovett's role in this charade would win him his defining moment with the Judge. He hastily dragged Nellie by his grip on her shoulder closer to the storefront, far from earshot.

"I intend to follow you," he mentioned to her softly after pausing in the same position, keeping their backs to the coach.

"What?" she exclaimed in a loud whisper, to which he responded with a death glare at her dangerous volume level. "You're barkin' mad! What'sa matter then, you don't trust me?"

"It's been fifteen years…" he uttered through gritted teeth, piercing her eyes with his own. "This may be my last chance. I can't risk it."

Mrs. Lovett reared back from the huddle he had somewhat forced her into, crossing her arms over her chest with a huff.

"I'm not daft," she argued defensively. "and I'm a little disappointed with your lack of faith in me."

"Not daft?" he repeated abrasively. "And what in the bloody hell do you have to be to consent to be alone with the man who raped Lucy?"

"So, you're comin' to protect me, is that what I'm supposed to believe?"

Sweeney opened his mouth as if to refute her, but found himself at a loss for words. His expression seemed to ridicule her for suggesting such a stupid possibility, yet contrasted with an underlying horror of the unexpected realization that it may not have been too far from the truth.

"I hate to interrupt," The Judge called from the vicinity. "But to make good time, we should be leaving soon."

"Almost done here, I assure you!" she responded sweetly to the Judge before whipping around to face Sweeney once more, her face tight with infuriation.

"You stay put, ya' hear me?" she warned, pointing a gloved, silken finger alarmingly close to his face. "You're as stubborn as a bleedin' mule and you're gonna blow the lid off of this for both of us. We've got to do this delicately, yeah?"

Though at first offended by her blatant disrespect, Sweeney withheld retaliation due to their presence in public and the fact that she still resembled some intangible, ethereal deity that he would have felt uncharacteristically remorseful for harming. It was only skin deep, he assured himself. Her usual self, expressed by her constantly blabbering mouth, was compromising her safety from him smacking her right then and there. And as much as he hated to admit it, she had a valid point.

"Fine," he spat, teeth clenched tightly. "Have him here by midnight, sharp. If you don't show I'll assume he had his way with you and go deal with him myself, privately or otherwise."

Mrs. Lovett smirked, tossing her skirts to the side as she turned to make her way back towards the coach.

"Darlin'," she began slyly. "No one has _his way _with Mrs. Lovett. Mrs. Lovett has _her way_ with them. I'll have him paralyzed and sound asleep in bed before the nights' out, wait and see. Then ya' can come and do what you do best."

Sweeney scoffed, turning on his heel and storming back into the pie shop without a second glance, slamming the door behind him. Nellie, outwardly ignoring her barber's insolence, smiled apologetically at her company as she approached him.

"Rats," she chuckled explanatively, shrugging. "We can't seem to think of a thing to do with 'em."

--

If the size of the cavernous ballroom wasn't intimidating enough, the blinding lights of the chandelier and thick air that swam in an aura of sickening instability certainly achieved the title. Mirroring it's bulging number of guests, the grand room itself seemed to be drunk and queasy, sauntering and threatening to stumble over in a stupor.

Everyone present wore elaborate Venetian masks, each one depicting a different animal or otherworldly deity. Some were hauntingly beautiful, with feathers and embedded rhinestones that shone in the glow of the candlelight. Others were not so, resembling pigs, wolves, or any other form of demonic creature that appeared as though it could have clawed its way from the depths of hell. The dense crowd engaged in all manifestations of merriment, ranging from dancing, the tamest, to the most taboo, such as touching, drinking in excess, open-mouthed kissing, over-eating, and fondling.

These high class, normally well-behaved citizens reveled guiltlessly in the carnal pleasures of the seven deadly sins from behind the shield of their masks, as if by wearing them they assumed another identity, one that was allowed to indulge in such delights. From behind the disguises they were incognito, and therefore would not have to account the next morning for what happened the night before, after they returned to their respective, proper roles.

Nellie watched the scene unfold with wonder as she and the Judge entered through the large doorway. She couldn't seem to shake the sudden neurotic feelings that overcame her as her eyes wandered around the luxurious pit of mindless immorality. She had been to many evening gatherings before, but all had been held by fellow members of the lower class, individuals that were expected to be morally bankrupt and acted so on a daily basis. There was nothing particularly frightening or unexpected about a coal factory worker stumbling around drunk at the pub, or the strumpets and barmaids allowing themselves to be groped in exchange for a few shillings. The sight of a young heiress, however, who Nellie normally saw sipping tea with her mother on Saturday mornings at the prestigious café, sprawled intoxicated on a the lap of a man with a sneering fox face was enough to make her sick to her stomach. There was something extremely disquieting about the higher class acting like the lower, wearing the faces of hell beasts while doing it, to make matters worse. The entire situation reeked of dangerous unpredictability, and Nellie couldn't help but link the vision before her to the one described by Lucy Barker the night she came home robbed of a soul. As feelings of terror for her own safety began to grow, she turned around towards the entrance doors, as if to leave.

She met the face of Turpin instead, who stood as barrier between her and the only way out. He, not surprisingly, did not seem to share her emotions of intimidation, and so she attempted to hide them beneath the façade she had been using with him all evening and had temporarily discarded in the heat of moment.

"I didn't know you were takin' me to a masked ball!" she exclaimed, unraveling her fan to flush the heat of fear from her cheeks. "I'm goin' to look out of place. Shame on you for not tellin' me."

She tapped his forearm lightly with the closed handle of her fan after giving herself a few good wafts of air, attempting to flirt by playful scolding.

"Ah, but you won't be out of place," he responded slickly, revealing a noticeably sized rectangular box from the inside of his coat. "I've provided accordingly."

She accepted the black gift box, which was wrapped tastefully with a silk ribbon that matched in color. She glanced at him with amused speculation as she unlaced the sable bow, took off the lid and discarded the sheets of tissue. Beneath the concealment of gift wrapping accessories, lay the gorgeous face of what she could only equate to be a raven, manifested into a half-mask. The sockets of the eyes were dotted with miniscule diamonds that shone from the ebony material like stars against the night sky. Slick, charcoal feathers that shone in the firelight, stuck out sharply from both the right and left outer-corners of the eyes.

"Oh, gosh…" she breathed. "It's beautiful. Must a' cost a fortune too, no doubt."

"Not quite," he assured her, linking an arm beneath hers as he produced a mask of his own. Nellie was relieved to see that it was rather reminiscent of Amadeus' Don Giovanni, and did not match Lucy's description from the fateful night, though she didn't completely perish the thought of meeting the same fate and kept her wits about her.

But as she and the Judge strolled casually into the swarm of carefree sinners, her preconceptions and misgivings began to melt away in the heat of the firelight from the aforementioned chandeliers that hung pendulously from the ceiling. The raven mask that was now strapped to her face operated as a shield as well as a costume. She was protected by being a member of the crowd, blending in instead of sticking out like sore thumb, or in the case of Lucy, a fresh piece of meat for the predatorial guests to pounce on and devour. In this case, she _was_ the predator.

It suddenly became apparent that the ball had assumed a different type of dancing game, in which guests were expected to switch partners every two minutes or so, or whenever the music changed to another genre. Giggling ensued as couples and groups split to seek stimulation in the company of someone they didn't know, or simply didn't accompany to the event.

"Ah, pity," The Judge sighed, turning to face the raven on his arm. "It appears our first dance will not be our own."

"No complaints here," she responded, brushing him off superficially. "I was getting' a bit tired of you, anyway."

The Judge, wise to the reemergence of her flirtatious sarcasm, grinned at her mischievously.

"Perhaps we'll see each other again," he offered, detangling his elbow from hers.

"If I don't find someone richer," she retorted, tapping the end of the nose on his mask with the hilt of her fan before sashaying away, being sure to swivel her hips invitingly for his viewing pleasure.

She commended herself on her performance so far, as she navigated through the crowd of anthropomorphic, affluent miscreants. Her acting seemed to have swayed the Judge to the palm of her hand, wherein she could crush or cradle as she saw fit. She knew her accomplice would have had to take pride in her seductive abilities, had he been given the opportunity to witness it first hand. On the whole, though, she was glad she encouraged him not to come. His unstable mental condition was no match for this scene, and she dared not imagine what course of action he'd be tempted to take while submerged in the same company that consumed his beloved Lucy.

--

These people were fortunate he left his razor at the shop, he commented to himself. Had he been suitably equipped he would have taken the whole lot of them down in a bloodbath, one by one, beginning with the Judge. _Wherever he was._ The ballroom was so thick with corruption and depravity, he was certain this was the same scene witnessed by poor Lucy on the night of her rape, and no doubt the same people that stood by, laughing.

He had only just entered, identity safe behind a half-mask that made the upper half of his face look like a barren skull. His trademark hair was even slicked back enough so as to appear unidentifiable, and his clothing choice was a high quality suit with a cape. No one would have expected this assumed persona to be concealing the barber of Fleet Street and no one, he assumed, would be sober enough to be so observant.

His eyes scanned the crowd as he made his way over to a nonchalant corner, searching for Mrs. Lovett and Turpin. He had noticed the guests began to engage in a certain form of contra dance, so he didn't attempt to search for one in order to find the other, knowing they could be on opposite sides of the room from one another. His main concern was to observe, after all, or intervene in someway if needed. He was not here to take action or bring matters into his own hands, as tempting as it may have been. In order for this to go smoothly, as Mrs. Lovett had advised, he was forced to leave his vengeance-thirsty friend at home, equipped only with his growing desire to harm and no medium to express it.

--

"Well, well, look at you…"

Nellie Lovett felt the hairs stick up one by one on the back of her neck, as the all too-familiar voice crooned not far behind her. Beadle Bamford had a way of entering a situation quietly and unexpectedly, so when he made his presence known, it was startling and a bit perturbing to the other party. It was like opening a drawer to find a cockroach crawling all over the nonperishable food items within, spoiling treats with relish and making one feel ill at the sight.

"You're the bell of the ball, you are, Nellie Lovett."

She turned around to face his much shorter figure, getting a good glimpse at his weasely, shifty expression that was revealed as he slipped off his mask, appropriately depicting the pointed face of a rat.

"Bamford, dear," she acknowledged with feigned cordiality, remembering that in present company, displaying a mutual desire for the other individual was the key to control, not attempts at defiance. "You're lookin' quite dashin', as per usual."

The Beadle grinned, revealing the rows of crooked, yellowed teeth that protruded from his receding gum line.

"Not nearly as ravishing as you, my pet," he attested, putting his palm forward so to accept her hand for a kiss.

Nellie conceded, given that no contact would be made between her bare flesh and his crusted lips due to the protection of her glove. She was forced to suppress a small urge to retch in the back of her throat when she felt the pressure of his mouth on her knuckles, and consequently beam graciously at him when he glanced back up at her.

"May I have the _honor _of this dance with you, my sweet?" Bamford requested contritely, maintaining his low bow.

Once again, Nellie had no other choice but to indulge his wishes enthusiastically, even when they commenced waltzing and the Beadle proved himself to be a terrible dancer. It was somewhat embarrassing, positioned with a man almost half her height who couldn't seem to avoid stepping on her toes or strategically placing his hands in areas that she would have rather he left alone. To make matters worse, he attempted to start conversations with her that were riddled with innuendos and sexual suggestions, to which she had to continuously make up witty retorts that sounded equally as philandering, but that would put a momentary end to his speaking.

_This has got to be the longest bloody song in history, _she thought to herself, as the orchestra maintained the same melody and she was left with her undesirable partner.

From the corner of her eye, she could see the Judge gallivanting around the floor with a tipsy, twenty-something redhead with a swan face that couldn't seem to stop laughing at whatever it was he was saying, or pressing her supple young form against him. Nellie attempted to make eye contact with her escort in pursuit of a rescue from her current situation, but the Judge was far too entrenched in his own felicity to notice her desperation.

_Well, I'm glad one of us is enjoyin' ourselves…_

--

He finally discovered her in the covetous grasp of the Beadle, stumbling oafishly about in a pathetic excuse for waltzing. Having danced with her before, he knew this ridiculous display was caused by the Beadle and not by Nellie Lovett, who suffice to say had extraordinary grace, in lieu of her many other shortcomings. Though her mask did not veil her convincing smile, he could feel her discomfort from the other side of the room, and noticed the way her body flinched whenever the Beadle placed his hand in an uncomfortable spot.

The shriek of the violin commencing a new song queued him into action, and he strode over to the pair purposefully, elbowing heathens out of his way as he did so. Without saying a word or making his presence known before hand, he grappled the side of her waist with his arm and pulled her opposite hand towards him, bringing her into an immediate whirl that took her away from Beadle Bamford and into the sea of shimmering jewels and extravagant fabrics.

"Oh, thank you, sir," Nellie gasped gratefully, as she glided with the skull-faced stranger across the floor. "I don't know how much longer I could have suppressed me vomit…"

He sighed at her open vulgarity, yet couldn't hold back a smirk of amusement from the mutual disgust. She didn't seem to notice, as her mind was clearly pondering other matters. Something about this situation registered as familiar, her face read, she just couldn't seem to pin-point what it stemmed from.

She eyed her new partner for a brief moment, as he returned the gaze, daring her to identify him.

"Mistah T?" she breathed, her eyes growing to a remarkable size.

"What the bloody hell are you doin' here?"

"No more chances, no more risks. One trail and error is one too many." he explained firmly, his attention redirecting to the crowd in hopes of locating the Judge.

"I told you to stay _put, _ya' bloody wanker." Nellie growled through gritted teeth, to which the masked barber reacted with a look of surprised offense. "And I suppose you've brought your lil' toys as well, have you?"

Sweeney purposefully crunched hard on her toes at the following beat, causing her to yelp unpleasantly and attempt to leap back away from him. He only reeled her back in forcefully, holding her tight to him and peering down at her menacingly as he warned,

"Now's not the time for foolishness, Mrs. Lovett,"

To this, Nellie held her tongue, but more so out of anger towards Sweeney than fear. She also refused to look him directly in the eye, a habit she usually had difficulty abstaining from. He didn't seem to mind the silence or the purposeful indifference as the two continued dancing, weaving through the miles of boozed party-goers who were too wrapped up in their own alcoholic, sensual reverie to notice the blanket of hostile tension that had fallen over this particular couple.

"Why don't ya' trust me?" she demanded to know, breaking the momentary silence between them. Her soft tone was painted with hues of disappointment, outrage, and the kind of desperation that is associated with an emotional aching.

He glanced at her feathered, shimmering face uneasily, quickly diverting his eyes from an inability to meet the raw pain in her expressions, even if a majority was covered by the mask. It wasn't often that he felt remorse for anyone other than his late wife, but lately Nellie had been especially genuine with him and it was beginning to destroy his defenses. There was something about the reality and honesty of her internal suffering that made him slightly regret causing it.

"It isn't about you," he muttered, avoiding her eyes. When he searched his mind for a probable excuse, however, he found nothing. It wasn't really about the Judge; he knew it wouldn't take much for Nellie to get him alone, barber chair or no. It wasn't about impatience; he knew that attempting to gut Turpin in public wouldn't work. He'd be restrained before the blade could even grace the skin.

_So why was he here?_

He made an effort to promise himself it had nothing to do with the strange, territorial feelings that arose within him when he saw Judge Turpin touch Nellie the way he did back at the shop, or the alarming recalcitrance she had begun to display towards him, as if she no longer felt the need to butter him up so that he wouldn't deny her. He didn't even mull it over thoroughly before making the decisive choice to go to the ball, assuming it had something to do with a predictable need. But now that his back was to the wall and everything was on the line, Sweeney began to realize that his reasoning for being here was not something that he desired to acknowledge.

Once more, the music struck a noticeable chord to signal the beginning of a new dance, interrupting Sweeney's train of thought. Nellie yanked herself away from him with an excess of strength, as he made no attempt to defy her. Instead, he stood there, motionless and limp from his overwhelming thought processes, eyes seeking a rational answer in the floor boards.

"I can take care of this," Nellie whispered sharply. "You shouldn't 'ave come."

She then turned away from him in a huff, too distracted by outrage to notice that the Judge was standing close behind to receive her for the next dance. She collided into his chest, jumping back slightly in surprise. He had placed hands gingerly on her forearms, holding her in a skeleton of an embrace as the two laughed at the incident. The barber could only watch in disgust as the Judge disappeared into the social abyss with Nellie, leaving him, as he typically found himself, alone in a crowd of detestable strangers.

--

Her first waltz with the Judge was not as unpleasant as Nellie had predicted. When they first assumed the positions and began gliding rhythmically around the floor, she was still too infuriated to think of anything but her prior encounter with Mr. Todd, and how tired she was of being pushed around by his chronic need for dominance. She didn't know where this newfound sense of integrity stemmed from, but she appreciated its presence. She never would have imagined that a simple, harsh word to the barber would be enough to catch him off guard and momentarily prevent any more of his verbal abuse.

But her thoughts began to deter to the moment at hand, as she began to notice her dancing partner was excessively talented, more so than her, and definitely more so than Sweeney. She had never been given the pleasure of waltzing with a member of the higher class, someone who had no doubt been given professional lessons since childhood, but the sensation of it was like wearing an excessively luxurious and expensive frock that she knew had to be worth more than her.

"I notice the Beadle found you," The Judge mentioned, alluding to her first dance of the evening.

"Oh, did you?" she responded, remembering how unobservant he was in the arms of swan-masked young woman.

"He could talk of nothing else. I do apologize if he seemed rather _forward. _The Beadle's etiquette around the opposite sex leaves something to be desired."

_That was for sure._ Beadle Bamford had been an acquaintance of hers for most of her life. She was well-versed in his crude attempts at chivalry, and otherwise was not in need of an excusal. But not wanting to explain the tedious details of her many run-ins with the slimy man, she simply replied,

"Quite alright."

The two continued twirling about in silence, temporarily. Nellie was still too vexed by Todd's out-of-line behavior to make idle, flirtatious chit-chat, though she hoped that the incident wouldn't color the rest of her evening. All-in-all, she was enjoying being immersed in the underworld of the finest, disguised as one of them, dressed in a fine gown and jewelry, being treated like a lady for the first time in fifteen years, even if it was superficial and fleeting. She knew she'd be back where she started from before dawn, covered in a coagulated mixture of flour and blood, dismembering Turpin's body so that her _dear, sweet_ barber and she would not be convicted. But for now she let herself enjoy the pleasures of the dream and tried not to think about the dreaded rooster crow that would thrust her mercilessly back into reality.

"Who in god's name chose the flowers this evening?" Nellie heard Turpin mumble distastefully, eyeing the different arrangements as the two spun around to different corners of the room.

"Had to 'ave been a blind circus monkey with no taste to 'ave put geraniums with dahlias," Nellie quipped with a smirk, pleased to be immersed in a conversation topic of personal interest.

"Not to mention the color choice," Turpin added. "It's offensive enough to mismatch the varieties, but if the hues clash you might as well cancel the entire event. I'm embarrassed _for _them, really."

"I would have chosen lily's." she commented, confidently. "There's no need for showy flowers at a masquerade, it'll only detract."

"Ah, yes," he responded pensively, eyeing the room with possibility. "How about a calla lily arrangement? Something simple and understated would achieve the desired effect, I think."

"Now you're talkin'."

She and Turpin then shared in an unexpected, genuine chuckle at their floral interchange. Both of them were a little surprised at discovering a mutual interest, particularly of that nature, but were not entirely imposed to relishing in the joy of it. It wasn't often that either one of them got the opportunity to talk flowers with another educated individual.

"You must 'ave picked out that bouquet on your own," Nellie guessed, admiringly, referring to the arrangement her sent her earlier that day, which had gained an entirely new significance for her.

"Of course, my dear. I wouldn't trust the obligation to anyone else." he responded, before pausing a moment to survey her. "Well, except you, I'm beginning to think."

The current song, which was beginning to seem to Nellie Lovett like the most brief of the evening, came to a seemingly spasmodic halt, ceasing the rhythmic flow of their dance and accompanying pleasant conversation. The conductor of the orchestra informed the crowd that there would be a temporary hiatus of music as he and the band took a moment to recharge. The party's response was a communal disappointment in the lack of melodious sound, but not long afterward, the focus was redirected to alcohol and sensual practices.

"Come with me to the parlor," Turpin whispered in Nellie's ear so that she could hear him clearly over the roar of the guests, or so she desperately wanted to think. Perhaps this was the moment in which he requested a sexual favor, what she knew to be the main purpose of this night for him. She began to wish she hadn't of sent Sweeney off yet, as it would have been nice to know he was hiding somewhere in their private getaway, ready to strike before anything carnal could occur. Instead, Nellie acted on impulse and decided to wing it, hoping for the best.

"I'll bring the wine," she offered, winking, as she grabbed an un-open bottle from the refreshment table before following him unsuspectingly towards the solitary retreat, imitating his motion of shedding her mask before entering the intimate space.

--

"I know what its like…"

The drastic shift in the tone of his voice caught her a bit off guard, making it difficult for her to swallow the very unladylike swig of wine she had helped herself to when his back was turned.

"Beg 'pardon?" she choked, holding a handkerchief to her lips in hopes of hiding the inevitable drops of alcohol that had seeped from her mouth.

He remained with his back to her, facing the parlor's single, colossal bookshelf with a seemingly unadulterated fascination, as if he was searching for a particular title. The response was denied from her for a short period of time, allowing her a moment to notice the way the light from the fireplace glinted off the silver touches of his waves of hair, like coins embedded in dunes of sand.

"…to desire something that couldn't care less for you in return…"

Her eyes shifted around the room to a resting point on the ground, giving her an expression not unlike a guilty suspect who's crimes are beginning to surface to the public eye.

"I don't know wha' ya mean, sir…" she replied, attempting to fake obliviousness.

"And you try everything in your power to prove your love…" he continued to the bookcase, giving the impression that his conversation was being shared with someone other than her. "…but it is all for naught. Nothing you could ever possibly, humanly accomplish will mean anything…because to them, you mean nothing."

Nellie set her glass down on a nearby end-table, proceeding to stand up from the loveseat she had been lounging in and gather her skirts nervously, preparing for her escape from the increasingly uncomfortable conversation.

"It's gettin' late, I really should-"

"I know how you feel about him," he said suddenly, whipping around to face her.

Her efforts halted and she stood frozen in position, avoiding eye contact with him at all costs, gripping the edge of the end-table that housed her abandoned wine glass for support.

"Who…?" she replied with a tone that heavily suggested she already knew the answer.

He sighed, smirking and eliciting a soft chuckle as his posture relaxed.

"As if I couldn't see it in your eyes, or the way you carried yourself, in the way you gaze…every movement betrays you, madam, especially so when you love some one with as much ferocity as you love him…"

"I…um…I-I'm afraid I don't know what-"

His sudden, close proximity to her severed the remainder of her sentence. Her eyes eventually wandered upward to meet his with the same reluctance and spirit of a guilty dog that has been caught chewing his master's slippers. She expected his expression to be riddled with resentment, revealing his knowledge of the plan she and her barber had concocted. She assumed his eyes would be narrowed, his teeth clenched, his nostrils flared. She had anticipated seeing Sweeney in his face, as she had become so adept to looking at a man and seeing nothing but aversion.

Instead, she saw a face ruled by compassion and concern, which contradicted greatly to the tone of his words. His auburn eyes reminded her of Toby's, not solely because they were a similar hue, but because they, too, seemed to possess an unfathomable honesty and sincerity. And, unlike Mr. T, his stare was clearly meant for her. His gaze didn't seem to seep through her, as if she was an apparition and there was something much more interesting on the wall behind her. Judge Turpin was the last man on earth that she would have ever imagined to look at her that way.

"I know," he said softly. "I know what its like."

She narrowed her eyes at him quizzically, wondering what manner of deception this was that he was pulling over on her. Surely there was no earthly way that Judge Turpin, a man with less remorse than she, could be filled with such compassion.

"Who was it, then?" she queried challengingly. "Who were you so infatuated with?"

His lips pursed slightly as his eyes fell downward.

"You're mocking me," he whispered, voice quivering.

"No, no sir…" she responded quickly, having regretted her obvious display of disbelief when it was apparent he was opening the flood gates to a very sensitive subject.

"It was a legitimate question, sir, I assure you."

The Judge didn't answer right way, and instead slunk away from her to an arm chair at the opposite end of the room. From his resting position, he surveyed the blaze of the fire place, the sole source of light in the entire space. His position was slumped forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his head seemingly having a hard time staying afloat with no adequate support.

Nellie, having developed an alarming sense of sympathy for the pathetic specimen before her, eased her way over to the chair opposite him, not yet decided whether she was going to sit down. The usual aura of precariousness that she received around him began to return, but not for the same reasons as before. This lack of trust in his motives stemmed from the unusual amount of pity he was able to elicit from her, as well as the unsettling sense of sincerity that dominated his facial expressions. She knew what he was capable of, what he had been capable of and helped himself to in the past. Of course Sweeney was probably just as dangerous, but she knew he was on her side. Or, at least she was fairly certain.

The Judge, however, was an enigma. She never anticipated him to be this much of a sympathetic figure. It bothered her even more that she seemed to have more than a few things in common with him. Feeling anything other than disgust or contempt for him was terribly wrong, she knew, and had to be some form of betrayal to Mr. Todd.

"Lucy Barker," he uttered hoarsely, interrupting the erratic flow of Nellie's thoughts. "To me, was Aphrodite personified. There was something so angelic, so trusting, so niave, so intangible. You have to understand I only did what I did because of my age, hedonistic as I was. I loved her, but I had to have her, consensually or otherwise. I couldn't let her get the better of me."

Far be it from her to call out anyone for their misdoings, she thought to herself, but she still couldn't push away the fact that he had permanently harmed an otherwise innocent woman that had done him no real harm. What logical force would prevent him from striking again when he felt as though his honor had been compromised?

"I know," she replied softly, studying the intricate designs of the carpet beneath her feet. "I understand. You jus' have to promise me that you aren't thinking' of doin' it again. You can't expect me to stand here feelin' sorry for you and scared for myself at the same time."

His focus shifted from the fire to her, but she failed to return his glance. She appeared particularly vulnerable at that moment, staring fixedly at the floor, her spirals of dark crimson mahogany falling down the crests of her snow-white shoulders. Her usual persona of indestructibility was notably absent, her defenses cast aside.

"I was young," he explained. "Young and foolish. In hindsight, I realize that my action was coarse and unnecessary. I would have much rather obtained her through another means, perhaps one that did not involve force."

He stopped momentarily to observe the flames of the fireplace as they licked against the charred brick.

"I didn't fully understand the weight of consequence my action would have on her. I thought I'd only be teaching her a lesson, making her realize that I wasn't a force to be denied. I don't think it was ever my intention to send her reeling into madness."

She gently sat down in the chair across from him and leaned forward to meet his gaze, mirroring his position of the elbows propped up on the knees.

"I don't mind givin' you the benefit of the doubt. It's not my place to judge a man for his actions," she assured, seeking eye contact.

"No, I suppose not," he sighed in response, meeting her gaze. "That would be my jurisdiction, after all."

She grinned slightly, albeit somewhat against her will. There were many things about Turpin that she had been weary of before accompanying him that evening, mostly having to do with his particular course of action in the past that neither of them wanted to mention in great detail. She never imagined that finding herself charmed by his antics would be any threat at all. Nevertheless, here she found herself, satisfied with his explanative reasoning and free to be beguiled without shame or fear.

"What's it to you about me and Mr. T?" she questioned, attempting to change the subject as she leaned nonchalantly back in her seat.

"I consider it a crime to waste a beautiful woman's affections," he clarified matter-of-factly, to which Nellie Lovett couldn't help but blush.

"Ah, go on…" she smirked, shrugging off his compliment as best she could.

"Though I'm beginning to think that isn't his only infraction…" he mentioned, examining his fingernails unsuspectingly.

To this statement, she couldn't suppress the sudden lump that swelled in her throat, or the look of terror that quickly dominated her features. The Judge knew too much, she decided. The only question that remained was how much he knew, and for how long she could successfully play dumb.

"Though conspiring with that repulsive sailor and disrespecting a lady's feelings don't warrant any legal action that I could reasonably give, I'm sure he's done something that wouldn't sit well in the eyes of London's public," The Judge muttered with a thick layer of contempt, interrupting Nellie's surprise pang of fear and somewhat settling her suspicions that he may have been wise to their schemes.

"What man has not…" she scoffed, easing back into the cushions of her chair with a newfound, yet temporary sense of relief.

His eyes flickered at her in response to the familiar statement, rubbing his stubbled chin pensively as he regarded her.

"Sorry?" he grinned, reveling in the irony and the deliciousness of the situation.

She shifted her line of sight from the fire place to him, in time to observe his amused, and slightly impressed demeanor that served as reaction to her statement. She returned his unexplained delight with a quizzical look and a cock of her eyebrow, accompanied by an uncontrollable half-grin that grew cancerously on the right side of her face.

"I'll be perfectly honest with ya', dear," she began, abandoning all formalities. "You're a particularly strange man."

"You're a particularly strange _woman,_" he retaliated, to which she couldn't argue and instead shrugged, allowing her unwelcome smirk to grow indefinitely.


End file.
